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Dürer has drawn him resting by the way...
Has he returned from some far pilgrimage?
Or just come out into the light of day
From a dark hermit's cell? We cannot know...
With stooping shoulders, and with head bent low
Over his book—and pointed hood drawn down.
His eager eyes devour the printed page...
Regardless of the little lovely town
Rising behind him, with its clustered towers...
O Saint, look up! and see how gay and fair
The earth is in its summer-time of flowers,
Look up, and see the world, for God is there...
Old dreaming Saint, how many are like you,
Intent upon the dusty book of fate:
Slow to discern the false things from the true!
Yet weary of world clamour and world hate,
And hungering for eternal certainties...
Not knowing how close about them heaven lies!
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